


You don't have to say you love me (Say you love me)

by spacegirl11



Category: Guns N' Roses
Genre: Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-19
Updated: 2020-11-19
Packaged: 2021-03-09 19:54:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 2
Words: 8,007
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27631682
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/spacegirl11/pseuds/spacegirl11
Summary: Izzy always touched him with gentle, delicate fingers, the same way he would strum the chords of his guitar and caressed the curves of its wooden body. He's the only one allowed to touch him like this.
Relationships: Axl Rose/Izzy Stradlin
Kudos: 27





	1. Daddy Issues

**Author's Note:**

> This is the last IzzAxl fic I had on my list when I started to write back in May, take it as a form of therapy for me, originally posted on Rockfic.  
> Read the tags, there's a scene that deals with rape, nothing explicit but it's implied.  
> I wanted to write something with a favorite trope of mine which is touch starvation and specifically with Axl.  
> Well, without further ado, thanks for reading and stay safe 💜

**I**

1980

It's a chilly autumn night; even the crickets are quiet outside.

The bare crooked branch from the tree outside keeps dragging its skinny like fingers over his window, as his brain just won't shut off and let him sleep.

No matter how heavy his eyelids feel, he's been reading the same line for the last 20 minutes from the book perched between his hands.

He hears a creak coming from outside and tossed the blankets aside, grabbing the baseball bat near his closet, peering down the window to find Bill throwing little pebbles.

Jeff opens the window, one rock landing on his forehead; it's not heavy enough to cause any damage. The redhead waves at him and climbs the wall with ease, landing on the wooden floor. The brunet notices he's only wearing a thin t-shirt.

It's not the first time the ginger comes crawling to his window all beat and bloody If he wasn't fighting his stepfather, he would go to bars and pick up fights with any stranger; before he used to cry on his shoulder until his eyes were dry and the hiccups wrecked his slim body.

He didn't cry anymore nowadays, all lingering sadness replaced by a fit of anger that was too big for someone that small and boyish.

The redhead's breathing heavily once inside the room. Adrenaline pumping through his veins, the brunet doesn't know what just happened all he can see is the old yellowish bruises from weeks ago healing nicely, a split swollen lip and dried blood caked over his nose.

The taller boy goes to the bathroom and retrieves the small first-aid kit from under the sink. Bill's sitting on the edge of the mattress, Jeff takes out the damp towel and wipes the blood over his nose carefully in case it's broken.

This whole ritual it's soothing for Jeff; the room is silent except for the redhead's breathing, his heart hammering behind his ribs.

"You're gonna tell me what the fuck happened?" Jeff pulls out the roll of gauze and cuts a piece to put it over a nasty black bruise on his cheekbone.

Bill's shivering, this close to the redhead he can hear his teeth clacking against each other and the slight tremble in his body as Jeff hurries in cleaning him.

"He threatened me again with touching Amy, you should see how I left the fucker" Bill's voice is clipped, his fist clenched tightly, opening the wounds over his knuckles.

He winces when the brunet's cold, slender fingers ghost over his injuries.

"You shouldn't have done that" Jeff's voice is snarly. He knows the punishment Stephen has ready for him. It's gonna be worse than what he already had to endure.

Bill looks down with a pout on his lips, his coppery hair is getting longer. He fluffs it with the help of Sharon's hair-dryer when she's not looking; it suits him better than the ridiculous bowl cut.

He eyed the redhead intently, admiring his work. He's getting better.

Jeff left the first aid kit aside. Finally turns off the lights, climbing to his bed, covering himself, he eyed the redhead who hasn't moved from his place at the edge of the mattress, drawing patterns and picking at the skin of his arm, the way his hair falls limp on his face irked him.

Bill had a volatile temperament, changing like the weather, and Jeff felt like walking on eggshells most of the time.

The brunet shook him gently, but he's unresponsive. Probably the adrenaline is fading; he can now feel his injuries.

The flower child pulled him into his cocoon of blankets, untying his tennis shoes. His body is stiff, and he gets goosebumps along his arms.

Sneaks his arms around his small body until he's closer against his chest, brassy fiery hair tickling his chin and a bony shoulder digging into the soft flesh of his arm.

It's barely audible, but he's crying softly and sniffling, pinkish snot running down his nose.

"Bill, what's the matter?" Jeff asked with a brittle voice. Sudden sounds could aggravate the situation, and he didn't want to push the redhead away on a cold night like this when he needed him the most.

Bill swallows a lump in his throat and turns to stare at him with glassy, bloodshot eyes.

"It's just... never mind," the ginger croaks and shakes his head, biting his quivering bottom lip; he could get lost in Jeff's gentle Bambi eyes, who looked at him with empathy and tenderness. It's all he needs to cry, tears running down his cheeks.

"I haven't been hugged like this in a while, can't remember the last time someone did this to me."

That information shattered Jeff's heart; no one has held Bill enough for him to remember.

He hates the redhead's mother a little more. He thought Bill exaggerated the resentment she felt towards his son; but never realized it's true. He made his copper hair aside and kisses his forehead, holding him tightly.

Not caring if he injures him more, he wants to protect him, said stupid things like it's going to be over soon, but they both know it won't be over until Bill leaves that crappy house. It's just not possible. So, he'll hug him as long as he needs it.

**. . .**

**II**

"Who did this to you?" Izzy's voice is tense and quiet, too calm for the anger burning in his hazel eyes.

The redhead has a ball of tissue over a deep cut above his eyebrow. It's been steadily bleeding since he went to bed; it pissed his friend off to see her pink bedsheets stained; some asshole threw a broken bottle of beer at him in the fight. That was unfair.

The brunet tilts his chin to get a better look at his face; his right eye is swollen shut, sickly purple splotches on his alabaster skin, bright, red blood sliding down. Bill closed his eyes. Bite at his bottom lip, opening a nasty scab on the corner.

The guitarist wiped away a streak of blood from his cheek. The ginger opened his eyes, and his heart skips a nervous beat.

He feels squeamish under the scrutinizing way Izzy looks at him, shifting his weight from foot to foot; the redhead swats his hand away from his face.

His jaw hurts, his entire face hasn't stopped throbbing since last night. Took too many pills to knock him out cold. He's only wearing the soft cotton of his briefs and an oversized t-shirt.

Bill doesn't answer and lets his friend inside; he's staying in one of his stripper's friends' apartment, has nowhere to go, and he couldn't go to Izzy's apartment with his tail between his legs like a puppy with a whipped butt.

Izzy shakes his head and heads towards the bathroom, hoping she has a decent first aid kit. Reluctantly, Bill slumps his bruised body on the wooden chair of the kitchen. The brunet comes back with a wet towel.

He brings the towel close to Bill's face; he gasped and flinched at the sudden move. Like a wounded bird, Izzy raised his hands in a surrendering gesture, reassuring his friend he won't harm him.

"It's ok, I'm just gonna clean you up" the redhead's breathing is heavy and his whole body shakes, Izzy's afraid he's going into shock, doesn't know exactly how much blood he lost during the night, he's looking a little paler.

It's the first time in a while he has to take care of his friend, hadn't done it ever since he left Lafayette and, Stephen isn't here to keep beating the crap out of him.

"Shit... that's gonna need stitches, Billy, it's too deep," Bill shook his head, the room spinning around him, vision going blurry, can't afford the trip to the hospital, they don't have any money.

Bill's been in L. A for six months and the city already did a number on him, he's skinny as ever, chubby cheeks replaced with sharp, high cheekbones, he still maintained those boyish features on his face, that strong and defined nose, ribs like a xylophone jutting out from starvation.

Izzy hands him a discarded bottle of whisky and an ibuprofen pill; he's going to need it if the brunet has to stitch his wound, before washing his hands and rummaging through the first aid kit.

He wished to have more sophisticated tools, but a pair of tweezers and a sewing needle had to do the trick. He has never done stitches before but believes he has enough experience. He's seen the junkies shooting up smack in the bathrooms of dive bars, couldn't be that difficult.

Bill still feels drunk and groggy from the cocktail of pills he had to swallow; if he didn't. He probably wouldn't fall asleep.

Somehow he feels safer with Izzy's presence; the distinct sound of his breathing and the slight furrow on his brows have a relaxing effect on him.

Bill concentrates on his face as his friend prepares everything, passing the needle and tweezers over the flame of his lighter to disinfect the tools.

The redhead gives little sips to the whisky bottle; the needle is close to his face and. It should scare him shitless. Now that he thinks about it, he trusts Izzy with a lot of things.

"Is it going to hurt?" Bill wishes his voice didn't falter and sounded so unsure, nervousness spreading through his body.

"Don't chicken out, jackass," Izzy inhales and snatches the bottle from his hands to give it a swig.

"Just make sure you don't leave any scars, Isbell."

Izzy giggles and the redhead swears it sounded like bells or fucking angels, it's one of the most beautiful sounds he's ever heard.

The flower child tugs at his skin before swallowing and piercing the needle on his cut, Bill winces and tries to breathe through his nose, Izzy starts in the middle, the same way they do it in the movies.

After what felt like hours, the stinging and tugging on his face stops; Izzy leaves the tweezers on the table and dabs a cotton ball with rubbing alcohol over the brand new stitches, washing his hands.

"There you go, princess," Izzy hands him a mirror so the ginger can inspect his work, not to toot his own horn but, it's pretty decent; the brunet crosses his arms and smirks.

"Better than any doctor" it's not perfect; at least they saved the hospital money, and as long as it doesn't get infected, Bill doesn't mind.

Izzy sits on the sofa. It's nice and soft; the springs don't bolt up. The redhead walks towards him and lies down, resting his head on Izzy's thighs, closing his eyes.

The brunet freezes but finally relaxed, caressing the ginger's greasy hair; it sticks to his pale cheek like tendrils, his straight bangs hide half of his face, his chest rise and fall with the distinctive pattern of sleep.

**. . .**

**III**

Axl has no clue why he's at the bar.

He should've stayed home watching crappy T. V shows or something, but the urge to get a drink was empowering, had the gut feeling nothing good was going to happen today.

The redhead spots his friends sharing drinks, can see the back of Chris' yellowish blond hair, he doesn't feel like spending time with them, Izzy is laughing and talking with a group of girls, his heart beats with anxiety, and he rolls his eyes.

He tries to go unnoticed but, it might be a challenging task; with his bright copper hair and pink leather jacket, it's like a beacon, attracting moths to a dangerous flame. It takes no time for a burly man to sit beside him.

"What's a pretty thing like you doing in a place like this, baby?" Axl might throw up at that. He rolled his eyes and huffed angrily, shaking his hand away from him "cat got your tongue or what, sweetheart?"

Another closeted guy, _like yourself_ , supplied his brain; Axl pushed that thought for later.

He's bald, overweight, and with the longest beard Axl ever saw, there's a cross dangling from his neck, gold sparkling with neon, he has no ring in his right hand; he might take it off. Axl tried to ignore it and stare at the wall full of liquor bottles, but the guy put one of his grubby hands over his shoulder.

"Not buyin' what you're sellin', buddy" the redhead tried to sound confident but inside, the guy and what he could do frightened him.

The guy smiles wickedly, predatorily, and gets up. Axl is no fool; guys that desperate for a piece of ass don't give up that easily.

The ginger takes a swig of his beer; it tasted funny, but nothing out of the ordinary, it's probably just tinted water. Within minutes, he feels dizzy and drowsy, neon lights dancing in front of him with flashes.

His eyes won't focus on anything; he runs a hand through his hair, panting, a hot flash running through his body, sweat gathering on his temple. The ginger pushes through the crowd to get to the bathroom.

Bastard put a roofie on his beer. He should've known; he feels so stupid.

The ginger barges through the bathroom and splashes his face with cold water, breath ragged and heavy.

He needs to get out of here and avoid the guy or anybody; his thoughts drift to Izzy, the only one to make him feel safe. Before he can exit the bathroom, the same burly man from before enters and blocks his only way of escaping.

Axl gives some tentative steps backwards until his back contacts with one stall filled with inappropriate drawings and unknown telephone numbers.

The man grabs him by his skinny wrist, and Axl tries to push him away, the bastard has his weight to his advantage, no matter how hard he tries, the guy won't budge.

He hits him square in the face, Axl's vision going blurry and the sound of music outside a distant echo lost in his mind. The redhead ends up on the ground, can see the guy opening his fly above him.

And just like that, the world was gone.

"That had to be the saddest excuse of a blowjob someone has ever given to me, you're lucky you have a pretty face" his voice irritated him, he's nothing but a sad man who has to live in denial and act like the perfect man of the lord he is.

It's not his first time seeing something like that.

Axl laid splayed on the dirty floor, semen on his hair and his Ramones t-shirt torn, the black fabric had some holes, and it kept sliding off his bony shoulder, he feels an ache on his cheek, bruises blooming where the guy's fist made contact on his soft flesh.

The guy walks away zipping his fly, laughing; the ginger gets up when the bathroom stops spinning. If someone else saw him, no one tried to help.

There's a bitter taste in his mouth, and not even spitting on the floor can make it go away.

Axl doesn't remember the last 20 minutes, a giant wall of fog in his memories since he entered the bathroom. His jaw aches, feeling ashamed, and he tries to fight against the tears, rubbing at his eyes.

He walks with shaky legs, stumbling through the people dancing, the smell of sex and cheap cologne on his skin, and it burns his nose in his drowsy state.

**. . .**

"I can't find Axl," it's all Chris had to say tapping at the brunet's shoulder, his voice loud above the thunderous music. Izzy takes a drag from the cigarette dangling over his lips.

He should be concerned, but he knows that Axl can take care of himself. The only thing he has to do is make sure their singer doesn't end up dead in an alleyway or a ditch somewhere outside of town.

"Don't worry, kid, he can take care of himself, now if you don't mind, I'm busy," Izzy gestured towards the cute girl he's been chatting up.

And the minute his words left his mouth, the sound of glass shattering erupts from somewhere deep in the bar, Izzy's head perks up, and Chris glances with a horrified face.

The brunet runs a hand through his face and searches for the fiery redhead between the sea of bodies, his date ruined, and the singer better makes it up to him for giving him blue balls.

He doesn't have to search for long. Axl appears in front of him, shivering with his hair sticky, arms around himself, clothes were torn, and face bruised.

Izzy doesn't make any questions and leads him outside, Chris walking closer.

He inspects his face; his pupils are bigger, iris bleeding into the pupil, green eyes frantically moving, he's high on something.

"Is he ok?" Chris questioned with an urgency in his voice, kid's probably scared, never seen the redhead in this state or worse.

"What do you think, Weber? Of course, he's not alright, someone roofied him" Izzy didn't meant to snap at his friend, but he's frantic, sobering up quickly with the sight of Axl all fucked up in front of him.

He's also frightened, something happened to him, his hair sticky with bodily fluids, feels guilty for living him alone, a knot forms in the pit of his stomach and a big lump in his throat, anxiety eating at his insides.

It's been a while since he saw him that badly beat up. Axl would never let himself get this bad, bruises forming quickly under the skin, like feverish constellations gleaming in the night sky.

Izzy puts his arms around his willowy shoulders, where they walk in silence towards the crappy apartment the brunet rents.

Axl practically lives there if he's not staying with one of his girlfriends, a strong, steady hand around Axl's, he's carrying all his weight, the redhead's too disoriented to walk on his own.

Izzy pushes the door open with his foot and leaves Axl on the musty couch, the one that has the springs exposed after the rats ate it.

The brunet sits beside him and wipes away the blood with a practiced movement like he's done in the past. The familiarity almost makes him miss home.

Izzy rests a can of cold beer over a nasty bruise on his high cheekbone. It stings, but it's better than nothing.

In the darkness of the living room, Axl can forget the pain for a little while Izzy patches him up with the makeshift first aid-kit with its contents splayed on the floor.

The brunet's touch intensified with the roofie still coursing in his body. It sends an electric jolt to his body; he closes his eyes, relishing in his touch, the one he craved so desperately.

Izzy puts him to bed and wrapped the duvet around his body. He caressed his face; he hasn't talked, and Izzy doesn't make any question; he feels his body close to him.

Axl can't sleep, images of the guy hands over his body haunt him every time he closes his eyes.

The flower child faces him, already asleep, and he puts a little distance between them, it's been too long since they shared the same bed and Axl is sure they're not the same boys from two years ago.

The redhead already feels safer being this close to the flower child as if nothing could hurt him when he's in his presence.

Axl finally closes his eyes and thinks of happier times spent under the shadow of a tree and summer's heat spend in the brunet's basement listening to music or smoking weed without their parents' knowledge.


	2. You've got my devotion, but man I can hate you sometimes

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't know why I struggle so much with the word band-aid; well into the reading, thanks for reading, stay safe and I'll see you around! 💜

**IV**

After recording a fucking demo, spending money they didn't have, and gaining some notoriety, Axl had to fuck everything up and fire Chris without his knowledge.

One thing he despised was when someone told him what to do; being dictated to and, he won't let Axl of all people do that. Punching the redhead probably hadn't been the best decision to make while drunk and loaded on coke.

He couldn't help it. The little smirk that he gave the guitarist was enough to make him see red and the first hit to land on his stupid attractive face, wiping away that insufferable smirk.

Izzy forgot the redhead wouldn't give up so easily.

"Is that all you have? Expected less from you," Axl spits blood on the ground; his voice is deep and accusatory, oh how he loved to hear the sound of his own voice. 

The guitarist's knuckles were raw, and blood dribbled down his left nostril, drying quickly with the heat, right cheek throbbing with pain. He had Axl by the collar of the shirt he wore, gripping it tightly.

Axl's right eye was swollen, black bruises from coagulated blood forming underneath the delicate skin of his bottom torn and broken lip; His pupils got lost in the sea of green, heroin coursing through his veins, mouth agape, and a string of saliva dripping down his chin.

He slithered his slender fingers over the brunet's hands, black nail polish chipped, trying to pry himself away from Izzy's wrath. The smudged purple eyeshadow made his eyes look even greener if that was possible.

Axl crashes his lips over the brunet, tasting the cheap liquor and weed lingering, his lips hot over his, he could get lost on the feeling of his warm lips.

It's a fervent kiss, one he's been longing for so long; it's not gentle or sweet, teeth ripping the already torn skin.

His hands roam through his body, fondling the pieces of clothing, Izzy's breath huffing into his mouth.

Izzy pushes him away, and his thin body fell to the ground with a sordid thud; Axl groaned and cried in pain; holding his ribs, the raven-haired guitarist puts a hand over his lips.

That kiss awoke something buried and forgotten deep inside. In different circumstances, this would be a dream come true.He's finally kissing the boy he's been fantasizing about for so long.

"Don't tell me you didn't want this, fuckin' fag" Axl's voice is slurred, riding high the waves of heroin and, he's not sure he will come back soon. He stands up on wobbly knees, body swaying slightly from side to side.

Izzy shuts him off with another heated kiss; this time, the ginger moans lustfully against his lips; the brunet pulls the singer down in the mattress that suspiciously smells like piss and old puke.

Air is electric, cracking full of energy around them, charged with a magnetic pull vibrating through their bodies, heavy with lust.

And Izzy is not the only one who can feel it. The knot that keeps his flowy yellow shirt tied together falls open, revealing his soft pale chest.

Izzy gets on top of him and grips Axl's throat with a strong, calloused hand, adding pressure to his windpipe, the hard outline of the redhead's cock straining against the fabric of his tight leather pants.

Only a fucking weirdo like Axl Rose would get worked up on fucked up shit like this.

The ginger tries to push him away when he feels lightheaded, but Izzy doesn't budge; perhaps he's far too high because his friend is not even that strong or has any muscle mass.

Axl is sure he weighs more than him. The brunet's nails dig into his neck; hazel eyes gleamed with a manic and euphoric spark.

The raven-haired boy reeks of cheap liquor, stale cigarette smoke, and the pungent stench of sweat.

Izzy's cock twitches at the sight of the redhead all helpless underneath him, his dick starting to fill out and throb against the zipper of the bright red leather pants. 

He still feels high and dizzy, all his blood running south.

"If you want to be my girlfriend for the night, you should've told me. Get it nice and wet, baby" Izzy spits full of venom, he's mocking him, only lovers get to be called like that.

His pants are too tight, and Izzy unties the drawstrings; as always, he's not wearing anything. His cock is just right there, painfully hard and shiny at the tip.

Axl finally goes pliant and, the raven-haired boy releases him; it's his turn to smirk; his voice is harsh. The redhead's afraid of what's going to happen at the end of the night.

But the way his voice sounds distant while dragging through the vowels makes him dizzy; it might have to do with the adrenaline from the fight and the drugs, lighting his veins with neon.

Perhaps he needs it, needs his calloused hands over his body with a pang of hunger too overwhelming, he can't get Izzy out of his veins.

The head of Izzy's cock drags against his bruised lips. Axl swallows but opens his mouth, giving tentative licks to the underside of his length on a vein, dragging it across his shaft, getting it wet with saliva.

"Fuck, Billy, always knew your mouth would feel good" the redhead grips his bony hips too tight he might leave his fingers imprinted in the pale skin.

It's hard to breathe when Izzy has him pinned; tears gathered in the corners of his eyes; while saliva and blood dribble down his chin.

The guitarist finally pulls out and flips the redhead until he's on all fours, his face against the mattress; Axl's sick, depraved, he needs this.

He needs Izzy's touch; no matter if he's hitting him or whatever this is. Axl needs sweet relief.

The brunet tugs down his leather pants, peeling the sweaty fabric with effort.

Izzy parts his legs slightly to get in the middle, caressing the peach of his ass and licks his fingers. Axl closes his eyes and bites the inside of his cheek.

He massages his rim with a calloused thumb soon; he replaces it with two slicked fingers; Axl can see the bottle of lube on the nightstand. He should be thankful that Izzy's taking the time to open him up.

Izzy's fingers brush against a spot deep inside him, and he involuntarily moans, his cock painfully hard and heavy between his legs, curving against his belly.

He can feel the blunt head of the brunet's cock, it feels thick, long, and it burns as Izzy shoves the rest of his shaft inside; at the same time, he's so hard, embarrassingly getting off on this, it hurts but in a good kind of way.

Axl moans again as he feels heat spreading through his chest; once the brunet is fully seated inside of him, the tight ring of muscle keeping him in place.

He finds a pace, his cock dragging against that particular spot.

"Who, fuck, who would've thought you were this tight" Axl doesn't notice when he rocks his hips following Izzy's thrusts, fucking himself on his thick cock.

He's moaning like the biggest whore on the Sunset strip; his cheeks flushed red with embarrassment.

The guitarist sneaks a hand on the redhead's cock, giving slow torturous pumps, and it's all he needs to fall apart.

Axl's body spasming as he empties his seed in his hand, his head hanging low between his shoulders. Izzy is not that far behind, painting the redhead's walls with his release. 

Izzy hides his face in the singer's chest, wrapping his arms around the jutting bones of his hips.

With heavy breaths and the stench of sex filling the room, Axl runs his hand through his sweaty black locks.

The flower child kisses his shoulder lazily, chapped lips dragging through his oversensitive skin, Axl's chest heaving, breathing going back to normal, Izzy wants to memorize the taste of his skin and its softness.

"Do you mind if we stay like this a little longer?" the fireball's deep, croaky voice pulls the raven-haired boy out of his thoughts.

Why he nodded and buried his face in his chest, it's still a mystery to him. Axl sneaks his arms around him, pulling him closer.

"Then I assume you enjoyed being my girlfriend" Izzy's thin lips curved in a shit-eating grin, and the ginger stares at the dark room, basking in the afterglow.

Remembering the brunet's hands around him, the texture of his palm, and the callouses on his digits.

When they regained their breaths, Izzy leads him to the bathroom, semen running down Axl's alabaster silky thighs. He hasn't said anything, and his gaze is unfocused.

Was the brunet too rough on him? Eventually, the redhead comes back, his throat feels on fire and, his muscles ache; the guitarist sits him on top of the closed toilet; Axl winces and scrunches his nose.

The sound from the faucet running merges with the sirens outside.

Izzy wetted the yellowish towel and wiped over the crusted, dried blood on the singer's nose; the same hands that would hurt him were now gentle over his still throbbing face.

They couldn't afford any fancy first aid kit like before. The injuries aren't so bad, just superficial wounds that would heal over the week.

Axl also cleaned the blood-caked over Izzy's lip, where cheap rings collided with skin. The brunet puts a band-aid over a cut on the bridge of the redhead's nose.

The flower child can't believe he left Axl's face like that, bruises like splotches of purple paint on a blank canvas, along his throat and face; he was once the one to take care of him. He lost himself in the path, leading him astray.

"I'm leaving your band, regardless. You shouldn't have done that, after everything Chris did for us and, this is how you pay him," Izzy throws the towel on the sink where the pinkish water swirls around.

He returns to the bedroom and redresses, pulling his yellow shirt and a black leather trench coat over his slender figure. Axl remains silent. He closes the door; the shower running.

Axl rubs the cheap soap over his skin until it's red and there's not a trace of Izzy's smell on him, tears running down his cheeks.

The brunet sighs and lights a cigarette, leaving the tiny apartment; his mind can't stop going over what just happened. He walks away. It's what he does best when things get too loud, the least he can do now that Hollywood Rose it's over.

**. . .**

**V**

"Where are you?" Izzy yawns in his hand, tears gather in the corners. He feels so drowsy his eyes seem to close of his own accord. He had to get up and answer the phone, so his dealer won't kick him out.

He already lost the small room he rented; the brunet doesn't have to ask who it is. He could recognize that particular breathing, even blindfolded.

A piercing static filled the line, followed by a clipped long sigh, Izzy did not understand how the redhead got a hold of this number, but it's not his focus right now.

"West Hollywood, outside a bar" Axl's voice is rough and hoarse; it sounds just the same after a gig when he's been screaming his lungs out until he's coughing up blood.

Izzy rubs the bridge of his nose, and the ginger swears he can see the brunet's disappointed face even though he is far away sleeping on some dude's pull-out couch and scratchy blankets that smell a little musty.

"Are you alright?" the guitarist sounds like he's going to fall asleep at any minute.

It's such a simple question, but it covers everything from broken limbs, nausea, dizziness, or an immediate run to the emergency room. 

The singer laughs dryly followed by a fit of coughing.

"No," that word made Izzy's heart flutter and fall to the pits of his stomach, and indeed the redhead sounded beyond exhausted, dragging the words "I'm outside that bar in West Hollywood, you know the one, don't make me say it out loud."

Axl hanged up, and the line went dead. The brunet jumped into the old Chevelle. It has enough gas to make the trip. The bar he was talking about it's a gay bar, the one they sometimes frequent.

Here no one judges them; they don't have to hide from the hicks of Indiana that could tell Daddy his son is a disgusting queer, it's extremely suspicious to him, Axl's too much of a coward to accept the truth hiding in plain sight.

L. A at night seemed to come to life buzzing with energy and the distant but always present tumultuous sounds from the nearby dive bars, strip clubs, and nightlife; it's even more charming than in the daylight.

Driving to West Hollywood, the neon signs blinded him, and palm trees sway gently with the autumn chill if the slight icy breeze from early morning could properly be called autumn.

Back home, the bushy trees would be covered in orangey leaf's and the cold could be felt within their bones.

Izzy had been living there for so long, and it surprised him how quickly he got used to life in the city. He spent too many times daydreaming about going away; finally, it became a reality. Now he longed to be back home.

He heard the roaring music and cheering coming from the bar as he approached, parked the car, and killed the engine.

The brunet found Axl on the side of the road, sitting on the curb. He stood in front of him and inhaled the familiar and relaxing smell of nicotine. 

The redhead stared at the ground, and Izzy had to clear his throat to get his attention.

Axl blinked and stands up on legs that feel like they are made of gelatin. He threw the still smoky butt of the cigarette on the ground without stomping on it, fingers so cold they hurt.

The ginger smirked with that boyish gesture, revealing his blood-stained teeth. Vision is still blurry from the fight, but he can see Izzy's hair mused from sleep.

The sweats sliding down his skinny hips, bones jutting out from not eating regularly, and his exhausted face bathed in flickering neon lights.

"Can you walk?" inquired the brunet; Axl dismissed it, brushing him off and walking towards the car in complete silence.

Izzy notices the way his friend clutches at his side, winces with every step he takes, and his ragged breathing.

The street lamps passed at either side of them, and the guitarist glanced at the redhead, couldn't see his injuries with his hair like a glossy curtain covering his face.

He gripped the steering wheel tightly and concentrated on the road ahead. So he won't crash.

"Are you gonna tell me what happened?" Axl sinks further into his seat, leaning against the window. He smelled like spilled beer, sugary cocktails, and smoke.

Izzy couldn't go back to the dealer's place with Axl in tow, so he took the familiar route to the ginger's apartment, sure it would be empty.

The flower child's been taking care of him for so long he doesn't know why he bothers asking. After that first night in Lafayette, where he came crawling to his room with a broken wrist and his face swollen, this became a routine between the two; it's too intimate for them.

Misery loves company after all, and Izzy's going to be there every time to put him back together, no matter how bad it is and how late.

Once outside the apartment, he tried to help the redhead get out of the car; Axl swatted his hand away, too proud to recognize he's even in that much pain; he preferred to limp up the stairs, hissing and gripping the handrail tightly.

He fished the keys from the inside of his leather jacket, too big that it kept sliding down his willowy pale shoulders, skin dotted with faint freckles and moles from the days spent on the roof trying to tan.

The brunet remembered with a slight smile; Axl laid splayed on the black tar from the roof in nothing but loose basketball shorts and his exposed chest.

Heatwaves almost radiating from his body, he didn't get the tan he wanted, just a slight red flush on his chest and the damn freckles on his alabaster skin.

Axl moved around the dark apartment, knees bumping into the sparse furniture; Izzy follows him to the bathroom and retrieves the small first-aid kit from under the sink.

The singer plops down the closed toilet seat, running a trembling hand on his greasy copper hair.

Every inch of his body aches; he's not sure if he's only bleeding on the outside, probably on the inside too; feels like it. Axl hears the faucet being turned on and off.

His organs feel like they're on fire, fighting to keep him alive and make it through the night. He's too tired, and his brain won't conjure a coherent thought.

Izzy puts a glass of water over his lips; his shaky hands won't hold it, and it would end up in pieces on the tile. The singer gives little sips, and; it hurts so badly but, the brunet won't be satisfied until he drinks from it.

Axl swallows, tasting iron on his throat; the redhead swirls the water inside his mouth and spits on the sink, the pinkish liquid swirling over the yellowish porcelain.

"Can you let me see?" The guitarist crouched in front of him and takes out a damp towel, looking for those enticing green eyes he was so familiar with, the ones that could lure him to do unthinkable things.

Years can pass and Izzy would always ask before touching him; that's one thing he likes about his friend, one of the many that are on the long list.

The singer nods, and finally, Izzy tilts his chin until he can see the damage done under the fluorescent white blinding light of the bathroom.

The redhead's lips are chapped; gnarly cuts and bruises decorate his face, dried blood over his nose, and bruises starting to bloom under the skin.

Izzy wipes the blood over his nose; the scratchy towel caressed his face as the brunet rubbed it against his cheeks, temple, and pulsating jaw, wiping away the dried, crusted blood.

The guitarist's face is so close he can see his slightly crooked nose and long black eyelashes fluttering against his cheeks, bushy dark eyebrows knitted together.

The room is filled with the redhead's ragged breathing and the electrical buzz from the bulb. All damage has been done to his face; he dabbed the towel on the running faucet and places colorful cheap band-aids on the cuts.

Axl reluctantly leans into his touch, feeling so exhausted, almost purring under his touch.

Adrenaline no longer dulling the aches on his face, he could fall asleep there in the cold tile of the bathroom.

Izzy always touched him with gentle, delicate fingers, the same way he would strum the chords of his guitar and caressed the curves of its wooden body. He's the only one allowed to touch him like this.

"You're gonna tell me what the fuck happened?" Izzy helps him to get off the cumbersome leather jacket, pulling the black t-shirt from his body.

Today he's wearing the one that says 'Shit Happens'; it almost makes the brunet cackle.

There is a big purple bruise in his prominent ribs and a long cut near his belly button; he looks like a starved puppy.

Izzy's slender fingers ghosting over the throbbing skin, Axl closes his eyes, whimpering and panting, like every intake of breath it's painful, and it probably is.

"What the fuck? Cut the crap Axl, what happened?" Izzy's voice is high and panicky; the redhead scrunches his face and covers his eyes from the fluorescent light of the bathroom with his forearm.

To be honest, he can't remember much or he doesn't want to admit it.

"Started a fight with some dude who tried to buy me a drink, I politely told him to fuck off but, persistent little scumbag won't stop harassing me, I hit him square in the face, can't go back to that bar for the rest of my life, probably," Axl laughed and grunted, he couldn't take a deep breath.

The cut is not deep, and he doesn't need stitches; the brunet pulls out the roll of gauze. Izzy puts antiseptic cream over it and cuts a long strip and puts it gingerly on his abused skin, almost touching him.

Not wanting to aggravate his injuries, Izzy bites his bottom lip, he always does that when he's concentrated, pink tongue darting over his lip, leaving a wet glistening trail.

"You should go to sleep," Axl leaned and buried his face in Izzy's tummy, inhaling the distinctive aroma that he associated with him.

The brunet's digits ruffled his hair and blunt nails scratched his scalp, making Axl melt against his touch; he reached for an orange bottle and pops the cap open, handing the redhead a pill of ibuprofen.

Izzy leads him towards his room, lowering his aching body on the yellow-stained mattress; he should go back to the dealer's apartment and let the redhead rest. He'll be back tomorrow morning to make sure he didn't die.

Axl wraps a hand around his forearm, slender fingers felt like icicles on his warm skin, green eyes glassy and pleading.

"Can you stay the night?" he's like a frightened kid, scared of what may lurk in the dark.

His voice is small and low as if he's anxious about what Izzy has to say; he sees his Adam's apple bobbing with nervousness, looking down at everything but the guitarist.

"Sure, I'll stay," Axl undresses in silence on the opposite side of the bed, his back towards the flower child with the never-ending sound of the sleepless city in the distance and the ginger's labored breath.

Izzy lies on the bed, awkwardly wrapping his body with the cheap comforter, giving Axl enough space; he enjoyed sleeping on the left side. Finally, the flower child turns the light off, the makeshift curtains made from old pieces of fabric sewn together were drawn shut.

The redhead rolled on his side facing the silver of skin from Izzy's back, feeling the warm heat radiated from his body; there's an itch on his skin to be closer to the brunet, his heart won't stop beating loudly behind his ribs, lungs wheezing painfully.

He wants to have Izzy's hands on him, aching with the need, but he was just too far away; the redhead took a sharp intake of breath, shaky, nervous, and painful.

"Jesus just... please Jeff, just fuckin' touch me" his voice is so broken and raw he can barely recognize it coming from his mouth.

He couldn't hold it together.

Couldn't take it anymore and let himself fall apart in front of the brunet, like time and time before, with him, he doesn't have to pretend to be stronger than what he really is.

He's been longing for his touch for so long, with an insatiable, greedy hunger, no matter if he's punching him or stitching him together with cotton and feathers.

The room went silent once more, and Axl put a shaky hand over his mouth, tears spilling from his glassy pale greenish eyes. Izzy turned; he blinked once and then twice with a dumbfounded expression on his attractive face.

The rustling of sheets echoes throughout the room; Axl is thankful that his friend hasn't said anything. 

Izzy wraps his arms gingerly around the redhead's waist, pulling him closer; it's the longest that he's ever held him and, for Axl, there's no better feeling in the world.

Izzy's fingers are shaky as he caressed the tender flesh of his tummy, careful to not jostle the bandage, his hand firmly on his chest where his heart pumped faster, alive, and breathing.

Breathing the same air from the brunet beside him, gentle hands moved over his body, brushed the hair away from his forehead, feather-like fingers brushing against the prominent hipbone, caressing every indent on his flesh.

Calloused fingers traced his chest, his abs, leaving a trail of goosebumps along his skin; it was overwhelming for the redhead. No one touched him the way Izzy would.

Axl rested his face in the crook of the brunet's neck, breathing him in; he pleasantly smelled like cinnamon, cigarettes, honey, and freshly ground coffee beans in the morning, feeling like he could drown in his scent.

Izzy felt like a starry night, hazel eyes sparkled unnaturally with the moon and made it look like it was made of the finest china ever made.

The redhead swallowed and closed his eyes, fighting against the tears welling up.

Izzy reached for Axl's hand, kissed his bloody knuckles, and left it on his cheek.

A simple gesture but, it meant 'I'm here, no one's gonna hurt you anymore' his eyes never left him, observing every twitch on his face while the brunet looked at him with tenderness and maybe even what appeared to be love.

Izzy smoothed his hands over his chest, once again feeling the steady thump of his heart protected by his ribs like a cage keeping a little bird alive, before pulling him closer and holding him. Axl closed his eyes.

Axl's sure he could never love anyone else the way he loved Izzy.

"You're feeling better, baby?" his voice is a mere whisper on the night and the redhead immediately opened his eyes.

Axl bolted out of the bed; bottom lip quivering and tears sliding down smooth cheeks. Izzy is on his feet, trying to find him in between the darkness of the room.

"No... Izzy please, don't call me that if you don't mean it" Axl shook his head and buried his face between his hands, hiding the tear streaks.

"C' mere, baby, You think I don't mean this? I don't have to say 'I love you' you already know, Ax, you already know" the words took him by surprise.

"Izzy..."

Izzy found him and gripped his wrist firmly; he leaned and left soft pecks all over his salty face around the colorful band-aids, leaving a trail of kisses along his face.

"Oh baby," whispered the brunet, making his copper bangs aside. Izzy held him closer to his chest; until Axl could feel his heart thumping against his own; skin against skin.

"Don't, Izzy, don't," Axl hiccup, making the brunet to hold him tighter.

The guitarist said nothing; he leaned until his lips barely grazed the redhead, fiery breath ghosting over his face, Axl breath hitched at the closeness.

His lips hover over inches away from Axl's, his hot breath it's minty fresh against his face.

Before Izzy hesitantly captured his lips in a nervous, tender kiss, Axl melted into the kiss, biting and nibbling all the brunet offered.

It's a simple peck, but it ignited his body with a spark, sending a bolt through the redhead's body.

They pull apart and Axl's mouth is still agape, eyes closed, relishing on the feeling of Izzy's lips over him, letting his mind process what happened.

His slender calloused fingers rested on his silky hair, massaging the scalp slowly; Axl held his face, hands wandering and exploring each other's bodies, feeling the soft flesh give underneath.

The redhead felt the tender skin of Izzy's abdomen and the hint of abs; he was too skinny but, that didn't make him less mesmerizing.

Izzy leads him to bed, and the redhead expected him to leave and don't talk about this anymore, but he slides on the mattress. Hands firmly on his hips and face buried in his hair, his body pressed closely against him.

The brunet kissed him on top of his head, his warm body behind him a weight he craved all nights sleeping alone.

"Nothing's gonna hurt you anymore, baby; I'm not going anywhere," whispered the brunet, arms heavy around his waist; Axl nodded and kissed his hand.


End file.
